


Der flaut det med blod og våg

by Squoxie



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (mentioned and referred to but not graphic), Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Child Death, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Prophetic Visions, Scoia'tael (The Witcher), The start of it anyway, Unrequited Love, Visions, deaths in the background 'cause witcher world is kinda dark, except it's more like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:47:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24737155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squoxie/pseuds/Squoxie
Summary: When too much is too much, and choices must be made. An account of the time just before Cedric leaves the Scoia'tael.
Relationships: Cedric/Ciaran aep Easnillien, Cedric/Ciaran aep Easnillien/Iorveth, Cedric/Iorveth (The Witcher), Ciaran aep Easnillien/Iorveth
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	Der flaut det med blod og våg

**Author's Note:**

> Thnx to betas SosaSanctuary and Avallac'h <3  
> Translations for Elder Speech are to be found in the bottom notes!

“Evellienn, daetre!”

Cedric listens to the order, and remains where he is, crouched on a sturdy branch. His bow hangs loosely in his hand as he takes in the results of this excursion, the results of bow and arrow and clever traps. His traps, most of them. Simple to make, but oh so devastating when used the right way.

His arrows, too. The fletching stands out to his eyes, draws his attention to the bloodied shaft, the tip buried deep in flesh. The pained grimace frozen on a cold face not so unalike his own, merely rougher of build, stockier, and with rounded ears.

Rounded ears, pointed – what does it matter? Too much, for too many. He has never seen a need for all these ways to divide one another.

And yet, he fights for the cause of pointed ears, he supposes. For freedom, for independence, for the right to live. It rings so very hollow. Why should they have to fight for it? From where came the hatred to be fought against, from where came the decision to fight?

Aelirenn… he remembers her still.

“Cedric! I said to return.”

He blinks, drops gently out of the tree to where Iorveth gives him an impatient look. His leader, his lover. Not, perhaps, the best of things to mix together, but it is as it is. He has loved Iorveth far longer than he has followed him, and in the end, while he will listen, Iorveth holds no true authority over him.

“Squass’me,” he murmurs, putting the bow on his back. “I wish to retrieve what’s useful still of my arrows and traps. Better not waste what we have of materials, there’s little enough to go around as it is.”

Iorveth’s lips thin, but he nods. “If you’re quick about it, then. We had best not linger, lest reinforcements or some other dh’oine pop out of the woodwork. Bloede pests, the lot of them.”

Cedric says nothing to that. He has nothing to say that would get them anywhere. Iorveth has suffered, and has turned to anger and bitterness by it. Cedric finds himself mostly resigned, tired. He doesn’t hate dh’oine, they’re simply people, simply young, always so young. They lash out because of misunderstandings and fear that turns to anger and hate, whipped into a frenzy by a few unscrupulous individuals.

Iorveth brushes a hand over his shoulder before disappearing after the rest of the commando, and Cedric smiles after him softly before he gets to work salvaging.

Most of the arrows are salvageable. Most of the traps are not. The bodies have things he could bring as well, he supposes, but- no. He leaves those alone, asides taking his own arrows. It is only pragmatism, to loot them, but he can’t make himself do it. The blood coating his fingers is already too much, tacky, half-dried on his arrows but still getting everywhere, covering his hands, gathering in the creases of his joints, under his nails.

His hands are trembling, his head pulsing painfully.

He sees blue and startles, but blinking rapidly, he finds there is nothing there. Still, enough time spent amongst the bodies of the dead, he needs to return to the commando, to Iorveth. There are other things to get done.

Upon re-joining his fellow Scoia’tael, he finds everyone busy with a variety of tasks, and he finds Iorveth contemplating some maps, discussing something or other with lovely Ciaran, his second. Cedric likes Ciaran, really, he’s sweet and determined, but he is also extremely devoted to the Scoia’tael cause, to Iorveth, and that, Cedric thinks, isn’t going to end well. Especially because Ciaran fancies Iorveth something fierce, but does not consider himself an equal. If it were different, Cedric wouldn’t mind, would love to fold Ciaran into their dynamic if it pleased Iorveth, but as it is, he cannot, will not, accept it. Not when it will only lead to heartbreak on too many fronts.

He moves up to them, Iorveth flicking a glance at him, looking him over, and Ciaran smiling, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He’s so vivacious, it’s enjoyable to see.

“Were your arrows salvageable? Iorveth mentioned you remained to check,” Ciaran comments, before his eyes drift to Cedric’s hands, and his eyebrows rise. “Oh, maybe you’ll want to wash your hands…”

Cedric smiles wanly. “Most of the arrows. A few of the traps. And I will, I merely thought it better to find you, first. It is just blood. Just blood…”

“Are you well, Cedric?” Iorveth asks, brows furrowing, and Cedric blinks slowly at him. Is he-? No. No, he’s not really.

“Ah, my head aches something terrible,” he admits. “But I thought to ask whether there was anything left of work with the camp, anything I should help with. If preferably something as mending, which requires little movement.”

Iorveth’s expression softens. “Go see if Vilanya needs any assistance. She might also have something that will ease your pain,” he says. Cedric nods in agreement, leaning over to nuzzle Iorveth’s cheek. Iorveth snorts at him and turns his head to kiss him chastely instead.

Ciaran does a terrible job of trying to hide the yearning in his honeyed eyes. Iorveth ignores it, is uncertain how to deal with it. Cedric gives the younger elf a small, knowing smile, and watches him turn away with flushed cheeks.

He leaves the two to continue their planning, however, knowing he will be of little help there, and instead finds Vilanya, the she-elf squinting unhappily at her various healing supplies. Her hair is in a tightly braided bun, still, which tells him more of her state of mind than the expression does.

“Ceádmil, Vilanya, have you need of my assistance in some way or other?” he asks, offering a kind smile.

“Ah, Cedric! Good, yes, I very much do. We had little to no wounds this time, but we are running low a multitude of things. Could I ask you to weave some more bandages? Though do wash your hands first, no need to get them full of blood before use,” Vilanya notes wryly. Then she frowns. “You’re so pale, is something wrong? Sit down, I’ll fetch a basin so you can wash your hands here.”

Cedric sits down, knowing well there is little point in trying to protest once Vilanya decides something. But then, her ability to bully anyone into doing as she tells them is part of why she’s so good at field medicine, too.

She returns with the mentioned basin, as well as a small block of soap. Cedric takes to scrubbing the blood off his hands at once, and unexpectedly finds tears welling in his eyes when he struggles with that which has settled into creases of skin. The water is red, too, not quite blood, too thin a liquid, but it’s all red, red, red, and he swallows, feels tears running over his cheeks. So much blood.

“Cedric?” Vilanya says, cautious and worried.

“I’m- I have a headache,” Cedric whispers. “Have you any mixtures for pain relief, any celandine?”

Vilanya nods, not looking any less worried. “You just sit here, I’ll get some.”

The blood won’t come out from under his nails. He digs it out with the nail of his pointer finger, washes his hands again. Rubs soap deeply into his fingers, to the point it almost hurts.

“Here,” Vilanya says, presenting him with a cup of cold tea. He drinks it down without reservation, and mourns the loss of the washing basin when she takes that. His hands don’t feel clean. But maybe they haven’t felt clean in a while. He keeps seeing, keeps Seeing-

He shakes his head, squeezes his eyes shut.

“You should rest, Cedric. You really don’t seem well,” Vilanya says. “I can get someone else to weave bandages for me, there are plenty idle hands.”

Cedric shakes his head slightly, rubbing a hand over his face. His lips taste like salt. “No, I need something to occupy me. I am just- tired. That’s all, I’ll be better soon enough, I promise.”

Vilanya makes a doubting noise. “If you say so. But you start crying again, and you are going to  _ rest _ , do you hear me? If I so have to frogmarch you to bed!”

Cedric laughs under his breath, for all that he doesn’t find much amusement in the sentiment. “I will, I will. Have you the supplies for weaving, I can start right now, if you’d like.”

Vilanya grumbles, but she gives him the supplies. Idle hands around camp there might be, but never for long, always something that needs doing. Cedric will do his part.

~

Iorveth is always beautiful, but some part of Cedric finds him the most beautiful when he is asleep. He always wakes earlier than Iorveth does, and he will always use the scant time before the other’s awakening to drink in the sight of him; brows relaxed, lips turned up at the corners, relaxed and unworried. The scar covering the right side of his face doesn’t bother Cedric, though he knows it sometimes bothers Iorveth. It is a horrible thing, it's true, but to Cedric, Iorveth’s beauty is not confined to his body, to his face.

Long lashes flutter, and Cedric smiles fondly as a sleepy green eye focuses on him, before Iorveth shifts and lazily brings him into a kiss. Cedric hums, deepening the kiss and closing his eyes to enjoy it all the more. He parts his lips upon prompting, and Iorveth makes a pleased sound at the back of his throat that makes Cedric feel all kinds of good.

They part to breathe, and Iorveth smirks at him, eye soft and warm. “A fine way to start the day,” he murmurs.

“A fine elf to start the day with,” Cedric replies tenderly. A faint pink tone flares over Iorveth’s cheeks and the tips of his ears, and Cedric cherishes it, knowing it will soon enough be gone. He leans in for another kiss, and Iorveth chuffs a laugh, fingers brushing behind the edge of his earlobe with intention as he draws him in. Cedric shivers, nips at Iorveth’s lower lip in reprimand.

“Don’t tease,” he says. “Not when I know you’re not going to follow up because you’re too sleepy, you silly thing.”

Iorveth gives him a crooked smile, eye gleaming with mischief and fondness. Cedric shakes his head and kisses him again, caressing his cheeks with his thumbs, and revelling in the closeness they share.

All too soon, they must get up, start the day properly. Cedric feels lighter, feels as if he can stand straighter, knowing he has Iorveth’s love and support. He thinks - he hopes it is the same for Iorveth, who has so much on his shoulders, who takes on the world as if it is his burden alone to lead and to defend. If Cedric can ease those concerns just a bit, he will be glad of it.

The camp wakes slowly, a luxury afforded by the slaying of those who otherwise could’ve taken advantage of such. Some people are already up, however. Vilanya, to no big surprise, and Ciaran, who is fiddling with some string, creating shapes between his fingers. Cedric tilts his head curiously at that, moving over.

“Good morning,” he murmurs. “What is it you’re doing?”

Ciaran smiles at him, looping string around his fingers to create a different picture to what was there. “Good morning, Cedric! ‘Tis a game. I saw some dh’oinewedd playing this way once, and it seemed fun, so I tried to do it myself. They played with more hands than I have though.”

Cedric chuckles. “Teach it to others then, and play it together. That does seem fun. Not to mention, it teaches you dexterity of hand.”

Ciaran rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling. “You don’t need to lecture me, Cedric. I may be younger than you, but I am not a child,” he points out.

“Ah- I apologise,” Cedric says. “I did not intend to condescend. I am well aware you are not a child, but a grown elf, and a very lovely one at that.”

Ciaran’s cheeks flush brightly, and Cedric bites back a laugh. Vilanya snorts, stirring a pot of what appears to be stew left over from the day before and throwing Cedric a look with an arched brow.

“Stop flirting with Ciaran, and go find some bowls so we can eat,” the healer tells him.

“As you wish,” Cedric agrees, not bothering with denying the claim. It’s rather the truth, after all. He flirts with most people receptive to it, but he has a particular fondness for Ciaran. Iorveth hasn’t yet told him to stop, nor indicated any particular wish that he does, so he won’t. 

He finds four bowls, and smiles at Iorveth’s appearance the very moment Vilanya starts ladling stew into them. She nods in greeting, while Ciaran brightens, his eyes practically sparkling. Such a cute elf. And yet. And yet, until he can let go of the near reverence that he looks with to Iorveth, Cedric will not share. Does that make him mean, he wonders?

They eat in comfortable silence, Iorveth only barely managing to pretend he’s not still sleepy. Cedric doubts either Vilanya or Ciaran would be bothered by it, but Iorveth wishes to appear as strong as possible, so he shan’t make anything of it.

More people wake and come along. Vilanya easily gives out stew to those who want it, while others prefer to find other things to eat for the morning. Ele’yas falls asleep in his stew and wakes with a splutter that makes them all laugh, and the easy camaraderie, the playfulness makes Cedric ache for easier times. The morning sun shimmers carefully through the leaves, and for a brief moment, looking at the elves around him, Cedric feels as if he is in a painting, a memory. Looking in, remembering it fondly, and yet not taking part.

It makes him uneasy.

The feeling passes, but his mood has taken a dip. All these strange feelings. He knows they are connected to his gift – a blessing it has been called, but it is more a curse – but it is starting to become a genuine problem. He sees things that are not truly part of the present, or feels things, hears things. It is as if he is only a vessel, a vessel for something or someone disconnected, a silent observer who does not care.

But he cares _so_ _much_. He cares for too many things, loves too much. He can’t stop. He wouldn’t, even if he could. There is too little love in the world, too much hatred, and he fears what kind of person he will be if he gives up on loving. He can give up on everything else, he thinks, but never on loving.

“Cedric?” Ciaran says. “Wherever did your mind take you?”

He blinks, and quickly draws his lips into a smile. “Down winding roads, it would seem. Have no concern, my dear, I am fine.”

Iorveth gives him a slanted look, brow furrowed minutely, but doesn’t say anything. Vilanya, meanwhile, sniffs and gathers the used bowls with brisk efficiency.

“Well, brave leader of ours, when you and Ciaran plan today, make note that Cedric is my assistant for the foreseeable future,” she declares.

“For one, we may well have more need of Cedric’s traps and archery than he is needed as a healer’s assistant, and for two, perhaps you should  _ ask  _ Cedric before you decide things for him,” Iorveth retorts. He’s still looking at Cedric, gaze unreadable.

Vilanya too looks to him, eyebrows raised pointedly, and Cedric abruptly feels entirely unamused. He does not mind her brusque manner, but he minds her attempt at trying to control him in any way, even if it is for protection, a decision made through caring.

“I will assist you if you need it, Vilanya. But I will go where I am needed. If that is to place traps, to scout, to shoot, I will do that. Do  _ not  _ treat me like an invalid simply because I had a headache.”

Vilanya blinks, looking a bit caught off guard, then chagrined.

“I did not mean it like that, Cedric. But these headaches, these… episodes where you hardly seem present at all, they’re increasing. In particular, I notice, when you’ve been part of the archers. Please, how am I to be the healer of this commando if you will not tell me what’s wrong?” she asks.

Cedric sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s not something you can do anything about,” he says flatly. “Please leave it be.”

Vilanya purses her lips, clearly unhappy. Ciaran is the one who speaks up though, looking apprehensive.

“You know what’s causing it? You’re not sick, surely?” he asks.

Cedric softens. “I’m not sick,” he affirms. “I have… prescient abilities.”

Ciaran’s brows furrow with confusion. “‘Prescient’? Which means what?” he demands. “Why must you use such elaborate words?”

Cedric snorts softly, and Iorveth makes a discontent sound. “It means, Ciaran, that Cedric has visions. But how bad are they? You sometimes look as if you carry the weight of the world on your own, Cedric. How bad is it? If it is so bad as to affect you in the middle of conflict, I can’t in good conscience have you there.”

Cedric frowns. “It’s not a problem, I will do my part!” he says sharply.

“If you are off in your own head during battle, you are a danger to yourself  _ and  _ others!” Iorveth snaps. “This isn’t about you doing your part or not – with the array of skills you have, you can ‘do your part’ anywhere in camp! This is about  _ lives _ , Cedric!”

Cedric clenches his fist. He knows that. He does. And even so- no, Iorveth is right, and he must realise that. There is naught but foolishness in arguing the case.

“…It hasn’t yet happened during battle,” he says tightly. “But blood… blood triggers it a bit too often.”

“What does that mean?” Ciaran questions. “For you? You seemed… sad, yesterday. With all the blood on your hands.”

Cedric shakes his head, relaxing his hand again. There is no point in getting angry because of this all. They are just concerned. “I don’t know yet,” he says truthfully. “I just know it makes me very tired. But you needn’t be concerned with me, Ciaran. There are more important things to focus on.”

“That does not make you unimportant!” Ciaran protests. “I mean- everyone in camp is important. We are Aen Seidhe, we keep together, we help one another.”

“As Ciaran says,” Iorveth agrees. “But if you don’t want help, fine. You _will_ , however, tell if it gets worse.”

Ah, Iorveth is upset now. Cedric feels his irritation fizzle out, replaced with contrition, and he breathes out slowly, pulling a hand over his face. What use is there in being defensive? Honest concern is not an attack to be fought off.

“Squass’me, Iorveth. You have my word; I will tell you if it gets worse.”

Iorveth nods, and his expression softens slightly. “Thank you. For today, please work with Vilanya. We’ll need your traps soon enough, but for now, you are of more help with her, and perhaps it will ease your mind a bit. Ciaran, let’s go. We’ve planning to do.”

Ciaran nods, springing to his feet. He hesitates, then reaches out to Cedric, who smiles at him and accepts the offered embrace. Ciaran hugs like he does most everything else; with fierce conviction sheathed in brilliant warmth and cheer. Cedric adores it.

Iorveth, looking at them, gives him a soft smile. Then he turns away and leaves. His shoulders are relaxed.

Why, then, does Cedric see an overlapping image of Iorveth with his shoulders tight, fists clenched and chest clearly heaving?

~

He can’t see. He can’t see, he can’t smell anything but blood, rusty, warm, cold, tacky, it chokes him, he can’t breathe, where, why, how-he is  _ drowning _ .

Something is gripping his shoulders tightly, with force. Shaking him? Why-?

“Cedric! Que glosse? Cáemm aen me, Cedric. Ysgarthiad!”

Who- Iorveth? Cedric blinks, tries to clear his eyes, but he can’t manage, there’s too much, what is he seeing? What is going on? Where-?

Pain flares across the side of his face, and Cedric finds himself in the forest, cold, wet, and shivering. It’s raining. Iorveth is staring at him, one hand clutching his shoulder too hard, the other raised, as if- oh, he slapped him. That explains the pain.

“Are you here now?” Iorveth demands. His tone is tight, his gaze burning with worry and helpless anger. There’s a bruise on his jaw. When did that-? What happened? He’s so confused, and gods how his head aches.

“I… yes,” he whispers. “What happened?”

Iorveth lowers his hand. He does not let go of Cedric’s shoulder. “You don’t remember?” he asks. “Nothing?”

Cedric winces, gently taking Iorveth’s wrist and tugging lightly at it. Iorveth still doesn’t let go. “I’m very confused right now, Iorveth, and I am hurting. Please.”

Iorveth’s face contorts, and Cedric can see he is visibly holding back tears. But why? What has happened? Has someone of the commando died? Were they- was there a conflict? By Dana Méadbh, why can he not remember?

“We lost  _ seven _ ,” Iorveth chokes out. “We lost  _ seven  _ of our people, Cedric. And I almost lost  _ you _ , because you were way off in your own fucking head! You promised you would tell if it got worse, you  _ damn fool _ !”

Cedric swallows. Seven people dead. “I didn’t- how was I to know-? Where is Ciaran?” he questions, suddenly horribly afraid. It cannot be?

“Ciaran left for camp, supported by Ele’yas. He threw himself at the soldier attacking  _ you _ , and managed to crack a rib, if not even break it,” Iorveth says, short and hard. “You were  _ a scout _ , Cedric! If you hadn’t been completely non-responsive and whimpering like I don’t know what- our people could be alive, and they’re not!”

Cedric feels very, very cold. It’s… his fault. Seven people are dead, friends, fellow Aen Seidhe, and they’re dead because of him.

“I’m… I’m so sorry,” he whispers hoarsely. Tears slip over his cheeks, disappearing between drops of heavy rain. “Forgive me. Forgive me, I did not  _ know _ . I did not mean for this to happen!”

Iorveth abruptly releases his shoulder, steps back. “No- Cedric, that is not- I know you did not intend this,” he says. Cedric slumps together without the support, his shoulder pounding weakly where blood is again allowed to flow freely.

“But it still happened,” he says woodenly. “And in your heart, it is me you blame for it.”

“No!” Iorveth protests, dragging a hand over his face. If he’s crying, the rain disguises it. “Yes. No. Damn it, Cedric. I cannot forgive- it wasn’t intentional, I cannot forgive an action that was not meant as one, it is not for me to cast blame, nor forgive it.”

Cedric laughs, and he cries. It is a pitiful sound. Iorveth, it seems, is too conflicted to be as clear as he normally is. But in the end, Cedric does not need affirmation to what is so clear. Iorveth  _ does  _ blame him, and rightly so. He has let the entire commando down by his personal weaknesses, by his  _ curse  _ of a gift.

Seven people…

“Cedric…” Iorveth drifts off, sounding tired. “From now on, you will remain at camp.”

Cedric does not protest.

~

Sorrow hangs heavy over camp for days, and Cedric cannot make himself face anyone but Vilanya, who mercifully gives him tasks that keep him active, but out of anyone else’s way. He sleeps on his own. It is not physically cold, and yet, come night-time he is freezing regardless.

Worse still, however, is the fact that it no longer  _ stops _ . Images, flickering at the corners of his eyes. Sensations of pain and confusion, but also warmth and pleasure, skittering against his skin with no rhyme or reason. It terrifies him. Is he to be swallowed up by this? To no longer see the present for all that which happens elsewhere at other times, that he can barely catch, hardly understand?

He’s curled up under a tree, trembling, when suddenly Ciaran is there, looking angry and bewildered. Why?

“Cedric!” Ciaran says. “What are you  _ doing _ ? Why won’t you talk to people? Why won’t you talk to  _ Iorveth _ ?”

Cedric blinks slowly. “I… it’s better I leave Iorveth alone. And you- your rib, it was broken, Vilanya said. I am sorry,” he mumbles.

“What for? That I got it broken in defending you does not mean it was you who did it to me. And Iorveth is… he’s angry, I think. He’s so short of tone. Won’t you speak with him?” Ciaran asks. “…You’re trembling. Cedric, what’s  _ wrong _ ? Please let me help you.”

Cedric shakes his head, tightening his arms around himself. “What would it help that I speak with Iorveth? It’s my fault we lost seven people.  _ Seven _ . Irina was hardly even  _ grown _ , she should never have been here, and now she will never be more than a memory.”

Ciaran’s breath hitches, and he drops to his knees next to Cedric. “Your-? Of course it isn’t your fault, Cedric!” he says, eyes wide. “You’re not well. It’s  _ our  _ fault, for not considering that. But regardless of whose fault it is, blaming each other isn’t going to fix anything. Goodness, you’re so cold!”

“Leave me alone, Ciaran,” Cedric whispers, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Absolutely not,” Ciaran replies shortly. His careful touch turns firmer, the heat of his skin almost scorching as he tries to coax Cedric into getting up. When he refuses, the younger elf huffs and pulls him up with all the strength hidden in deceptively lithe muscles. Cedric grumbles, but can’t make himself refrain from leaning into the solid heat of Ciaran’s body. He’s so warm.

“There we go, come on now,” Ciaran says, tone gentle. His grip is strong as he pulls Cedric along, and Cedric keeps his eyes shut, simply following as tears run down over his cheeks. What has he done to deserve such care?

Ciaran makes him sit down, then disappears for a short moment, before Cedric feels a woollen blanket being wrapped around his shoulders. It’s lovely and warm. Why is he so cold? It isn’t cold in the weather, but he’s freezing so terribly.

“Oh, Cedric,” Ciaran murmurs, thumbs gently wiping away tears from Cedric’s cheeks. He opens his eyes, looks at Ciaran, and he can’t understand the fierce warmth in those honeyed eyes. Why can’t Ciaran understand that Cedric isn’t  _ worth  _ such fondness? He’s a sad old wreck, and he no longer knows if he can make himself believe any of this is worth it. But he cannot tell Ciaran that. He cannot tell Iorveth that.

“How can I help you?” Ciaran asks. “Please, Cedric. You are precious to us, and we do not wish to see you hurt.”

Cedric shakes his head weakly. “Nor do I wish to see you hurt, darling Ciaran,” he whispers.

Ciaran’s expression turns obstinate. “Well, you are hurting me by refusing my help. Am I not good enough?”

Cedric jerks. “No, you mustn’t think- you are so very good, Ciaran. So very, very lovely.”

“Then why?” Ciaran demands.

Cedric sighs miserably, averting his gaze briefly before forcing himself to look up. “I am afraid,” he admits. “I am afraid that if I tell you what I am feeling, these thoughts I am having, you will look upon me, and the warmth will be gone from your eyes. I am afraid that if I tell Iorveth, he will not understand, he will think I do not love him as deeply as I do. I am afraid, Ciaran, that I no longer have a purpose.”

Ciaran frowns, his fingers rubbing soothing circles at Cedric’s temples. Then, with a glint of determination, he leans over and presses their lips together firmly. Cedric blinks with bewilderment, but Ciaran is gently insistent, and so with a soft whimper, he closes his eyes and kisses back. It’s a sweet kiss, slow and warm, and so terribly easy to get lost in.

Ciaran pulls back with a last, chaste peck, and keeps his hands framing Cedric’s face. “Never will the warmth fade from my eyes as I look upon you, Cedric,” he says seriously. “No matter what it is you feel or think. And Iorveth loves you so very much, he would never think any less of you.”

Cedric smiles sadly. He is not quite so certain of that. And poor, sweet Ciaran, so full of bravery and love. Cedric knows he could so easily fall in love with the younger elf, if he allowed it of himself. Knows Ciaran could easily come to love him truly, too. But there is still Iorveth to consider, in all of it, and Iorveth is not comfortable with the idea of a lover who looks up to him as much as Ciaran does.

“You know you are greatly valued, Cedric. You must know that,” Ciaran continues. “So you cannot be part of the warriors, what problem is that? You are a craftsman, and you know near as much medicine as Vilanya does. You will always find a purpose amongst us. You needn’t fear.”

Oh, if only it was that simple. Cedric leans into the warm hands that feel as if they hold him together, and he wishes he could unsee, and unknow. He wishes his conviction could burn as brightly as that of Ciaran and Iorveth, as Ele’yas and Vilanya and poor, young Irina. But it no longer does. Nor, if he is to be honest, did it ever.

And now, it seems the fire is sputtering and dying entirely, leaving naught but ashes behind.

“Won’t you talk with Iorveth?” Ciaran asks him, voice soft and kind, and Cedric sighs. He supposes there is little point in putting it off, and in the end, he would rather know if Iorveth is angry with him or not, but he will not yet mention his doubts. Not yet.

“Fine,” he says. “I shall.”

Ciaran gives him a relieved smile. “Shall I fetch him? He’s not busy, just pacing.”

“…If you would,” Cedric agrees. Otherwise he will simply put it off again, think himself into circles, into spirals, into branching threads of nonsense and fear. 

Ciaran presses a light kiss to his cheek, then moves off. Cedric misses the warmth of him at once, for all that the woollen blanket lies heavily on his shoulders. He pulls it tighter around himself, folding himself up to hide his entire body within the folds of grey wool, seeking the comfort of it. Flowers are embroidered on it, he notices, with yellow thread. Uneven stitches. Ciaran’s work, he recognises, and it is fitting then that the flower depicted is a sunflower. A cheerful flower, one which can mean adoration, loyalty, and longevity.

His musings are broken upon the arrival of Iorveth, Ciaran alongside him before smiling quickly and moving away. Cedric chews on his lower lip, forcing himself to look up, to meet Iorveth’s gaze. Iorveth looks… he looks pained.

“You’ve always taken mistakes and made them your own.”

Cedric frowns, ducking a bit further down into the blanket. “If the mistake was mine, why should I not own it?” he questions wearily.

“It wasn’t your fault, Cedric. It was  _ mine _ ,” Iorveth replies. “As the leader of this commando, it is my responsibility to know whether my warriors are able or not. I had my misgivings, when we spoke of your visions and how they bothered you, but I chose to believe it would be fine.”

Cedric is silent for a moment. On the one hand, he does understand the idea. But on the other, Iorveth still expected him to be truthful of his mental state, and he… hasn’t truly been, has he? He hides because he does not wish to hurt his loved ones. But in that, he has managed to cause more harm than ever. How foolish of him. Even so, he still cannot share the doubts that plague him.

“I am sorry, Iorveth,” he says. What for, he’s not sure. Many things.

“I am too,” Iorveth says. “Please come back to our bed, Cedric. Stop hiding away from me, from us all. We will grieve together, and remember our fellow Aen Seidhe with pride.”

Cedric nods. What else is he to do? They will grieve, and remember. But he is not sure he will ever feel pride in the deaths of the young.

Iorveth sighs, moving closer, steps soft and silent on the grass as he seats himself next to Cedric, leans into him and reaches out to fiddle with the braid in front of his ear. Taking it out, messy as it has become. Redoing it. Cedric closes his eyes, and wordlessly turns his head to allow Iorveth to fix the other braid as well. Nimble fingers make quick work of it.

There’s a press of lips to his forehead. Then, to his lips. He kisses Iorveth back, and ignores the tears that once more start to run over his cheeks.

“I love you, Cedric. Please don’t forget that,” Iorveth whispers.

Cedric’s heart feels so very, very heavy.

~

They grieve, and they remember, and they go back to normal. But something is different now. Cedric is different now. He weaves bandages and gathers herbs, sets snares in the forests and gathers berries and roots. He doesn’t mind it, much prefers it to being set to kill, but it doesn’t change that he observes young elves with grim faces, observes Iorveth and Ciaran muttering in low tones with deep frowns, and observes bandages, poultices and herbs be used faster than they’re made and gathered.

He observes a group of people fighting for their right to exist, and dying for it.

He wishes to help, he does. But he doesn’t know how. The tasks he performs are a part of keeping the commando alive, but what does that matter when they throw themselves increasingly into combat, trying to mow down any dh’oine that they come across? The Temerian Special Forces that hunt them are one thing. But a lone hunter, a merchant passing by?

An eye for an eye will leave the whole world blind. It’s a never-ending spiral of death.

And still, the images behind his eyes will not leave him alone. He has taken to sipping on a bottle of vodka every now and then, to make it abate. It’s bitter, foul, but it makes his head hazy, makes him forget the pain and the worry and the  _ damned  _ visions.

When he is out hunting, however, he discovers something that punches the breath out of him. A body. But not just any body, but that of a child. Half-grown, at most, lying amongst the leaves with a surprised look frozen on a small face. Untouched, excepting the one arrow speared through fragile flesh and bone.

He falls to his knees by the child, closing stiff eyelids. He’s too shocked to cry.

Iorveth would not condone this. Surely he would not. But it  _ is _ a Scoia’tael arrow. So who did it, who chose to kill a defenceless child? Is  _ that  _ what it has come to? From the berry-stained hands, the child did naught but look for food. Are the Scoia’tael to kill children for the sin of being dh’oine? One cannot blame a child for the sins of their parents. One  _ cannot _ .

He will not leave the body like this. He refuses.

With a heavy heart, he makes note of the placement, and is swift in returning to camp to get a spade. No one stops him on the way back out, whether because they are not interested, or because of the stormy expression he is no doubt wearing.

Digging the grave takes time. Cedric digs deep, hoping it will make it less likely for necrophages to sniff the body out, and once he is done, gently puts the body to its final rest. He removes the arrow with care, puts it in his own quiver. He intends to talk with Iorveth about it. But first, he replaces the dirt, filling the grave and smoothing it down, replacing the grass on top to make it look as untouched as possible.

With that done, he kneels, placing his hand atop the grave. “Va faill, dh’oinewedd. Dearme aen elaine tedd.”

A moment of silence, then he takes the spade, and heads back. He is not in a good mood.

“Where have you been by, Cedric? You’re full of dirt!” Ele’yas observes. “Thought you were going hunting for animals, not roots.”

Cedric’s jaw sets. “I thought so as well,” he says tightly. Ele’yas pauses, uncertainty entering his face.

“…Is something wrong?” he asks.

“Yes. And I need to talk to Iorveth,” Cedric replies. “Do you know where he is?”

Ele’yas nods slowly. “Headed out a bit north, last I saw,” he offers. “Are you… alright?”

Cedric chews on his lip for a moment, then manages to give a half-hearted smile. “Not really. But do not use energy on worrying for me, I will be fine. I must simply discuss something with Iorveth.”

Ele’yas smiles slightly. “Well- do tell if you need anything though, won’t you?”

Kindness and love, animosity and hatred. How can there be space for so much emotion in people? How can these elves he knows to be cheerful, kind and supportive also be hateful enough to kill any dh’oine on sight, regardless of situation, of age?

“Thank you, I will,” Cedric says, and the words feel thick and woollen on his tongue.

He moves north. He leaves the spade behind in camp, and picks on the dirt under his nails.

He finds Iorveth in a small clearing with a stream running through it, sitting up on a mossy rock and playing his flute. It’s a beautiful tune, a bit sad, and now, finally, tears slip over Cedric’s cheeks. He’s crying so much, nowadays.

“Cedric…? What’s the matter?” Iorveth asks. He lowers his flute, frowns with concern.

Cedric pulls the bloody arrow from his quiver, holding it out. “Whose arrow is this?” he questions. “Whose fletching?”

Iorveth blinks, frown deepening, and he slips off the rock, moving closer and taking the arrow. He studies it, a twist to his mouth.

“Cathán,” Iorveth decides. “Why? Cedric, minne, what bothers you so?”

Cedric closes his eyes bitterly. Cathán is almost as young as Irina was. So young, and yet filled with enough hatred to kill a child in cold blood? No, he mustn’t be so quick to judge. There may be reason. He hopes.

“Speak to me,” Iorveth murmurs.

“There was a child,” Cedric whispers, opening his eyes. He must look Iorveth in the eye for this conversation. “There was a child, and one of your Scoia’tael has  _ shot them _ , Iorveth.”

Iorveth’s eye widens, then narrows. “A child?” he repeats. “Explain.”

Cedric sighs heavily, drawing a hand over his face. “I found the body of a child. That arrow killed them,” he says bluntly. “That child was only picking  _ berries _ , and now they are  _ dead _ . For what reason?  _ For what reason,  _ Iorveth?”

A muscle jumps in Iorveth’s jaw. “That should not have happened,” he replies. “I will speak with Cathán.”

“And then what?” Cedric demands. “What drove him to shoot a defenceless child? What is this commando going towards? What are we fighting  _ for,  _ Iorveth? Can you tell me that? Because I no longer know!”

Iorveth frowns at him. “We fight for what we have always fought for. Our right to live as a free folk, to no longer be repressed by the dh’oine! I understand that this affects you, Cedric, but it is a mistake which will not be repeated,” he says sharply.

“Our right to live as free folk, at the cost of all lives around us, including our own? Where will we end, like this!?” Cedric cries. “This futile battle can only end in tears and blood and death! Every blink I drown in it, every breath I take accompanied by the knowledge that someone else has ceased to breathe, and never will again, because we wish for so-called freedom! Where will it  _ end _ ?”

“Cáelm!” Iorveth says, and Cedric realises he’s struggling to breathe. He collapses to his knees, keening, and Iorveth reaches for him hesitantly. Cedric withdraws, shaking his head, and curls up on himself. He tries to stop himself from sobbing, and fails. It hurts. His head hurts, his heart hurts, it all just hurts.

Where will it end? He closes his eyes, and all he sees are corpses.

“Cedric, what is  _ wrong  _ with you?” Iorveth asks, frustrated. Frustrated by helplessness, Cedric recognises in the tone, but no less frustrated. “Since when were you so- so indecisive, so strange? You are distancing yourself from me, and I don’t understand  _ why _ . Talk to me!”

Cedric whines. “It  _ hurts _ .”

“What hurts? I don’t understand, Cedric, please  _ explain _ ,” Iorveth says. One of his hands comes to rest on Cedric’s shoulder, the other brushing over his hair, smoothing back strands that have fallen into his face. He is so soft, and yet so hard, so unyielding. Cedric admires it, has always admired Iorveth’s resoluteness, his will to see things through despite opposition. But now- now it feels abrasive, almost, the dichotomy of the kindness he shows Cedric, and the near hatred he shows dh’oine.

“Everything hurts,” he whispers. “It cannot go on like this, it cannot. I am  _ scared _ , Iorveth. I am scared, and I am angry, and I am so very, very  _ sad _ . What makes us better than them?”

Iorveth is silent for a moment, fingers gently playing with Cedric’s hair. “It isn’t a question of  _ better  _ or not. But we will not and cannot allow ourselves to be eradicated. That’s what this is about. How could you possibly have doubts about that? How many of my decisions are you doubting, exactly? Or is it just  _ me  _ you’re doubting? You cannot ask me to put you before our cause, Cedric! I love you, but I cannot do that. You  _ know  _ that.”

Cedric whimpers. He could never ask Iorveth to do that.

Iorveth sighs. “You are tired. Rest, and we can talk about this when you’re not distraught. I- you’re clearly not all there right now. Come, I will bring you back to camp.”

Cedric allows him that, too exhausted, too pained, to argue. He stumbles and sways like a drunk as Iorveth leads him back, barely capable of undressing as he falls into bed, tears not quite dry on his face. Iorveth tucks the blankets around him, brushes his hair back again, and kisses his forehead sweetly.

“Dearme, minne. I hope in the morning you will feel better.”

Cedric already knows he won’t.

~

The next day, Iorveth is nowhere to be found, busy with something or other. Judging from the lack of warriors in camp, an attack, or an ambush.

Cedric finds a bottle of vodka and downs the entire thing. It still tastes foul, but by the time he has downed the entire thing, he’s not sure he can taste anything at all. His head is spinning, but at the same time it is so blessedly silent. The images can’t touch him, the feelings can’t reach him. He’s  _ safe _ .

It would seem, however, that not all the warriors are gone.

“Cedric!?” Ciaran exclaims, eyes wide. They dart to the empty bottle Cedric still clutches in his hand, and something like shock enters his face. “Are you- did you drink all of that?”

“Maybe,” Cedric replies.

Ciaran stares at him, bewildered, before he moves closer, carefully taking the bottle. Cedric releases it, smiling. “It’s silent, now,” he mumbles, words slurring together. “It’s lovely.”

“Silent? What do you mean? Goodness, you really are drunk…” Ciaran says, setting the bottle aside, and sitting down next to him. “You’re going to get a terrible hangover, you know that, right?”

Cedric waves his hand dismissively. That is then. “The images, the visions,” he says. “Gone in a fog… mist? Misty fog… packed into woollen blankets.”

Ciaran frowns at him, looking rather concerned. “Do they… do they hurt you?” he asks.

“Mm… a bit,” Cedric agrees. Which is rather an understatement, but right now, he doesn’t care. Isn’t really bothered. Just dizzy. Ciaran’s brows furrow, and he reaches out to smooth them out with a finger.

“Don’t do that, you’re so pretty,” he slurs. “Don’t look so sad, you should be cheerful, joyful. You’re so beautiful, Ciaran…”

Ciaran blinks at him, and gives a half-hearted smile. “You are also beautiful, Cedric. I wish you weren’t so sad, that I knew how to cheer you up. But I- you- why don’t you want me? You tease me so, and yet…”

Cedric closes his eyes briefly, humming under his breath. “What one wants, what one should do…” he says. “They don’t always co… coincide. I want you very much. But it is unfair to you. Unfair to Iorveth.”

“But I-! Can I not be beside the both of you?” Ciaran asks, before shaking his head, chagrined. “I shouldn’t ask you this while you’re drunk, I’m sorry.”

“I’m not stupid merely because I’m drunk,” Cedric says wryly. “And you should talk to Iorveth. I’m sorry, Ciaran, that it isn’t as simple as it should be. Nothing is simple, anymore, everything is complicated, so complicated…”

Ciaran grimaces. “It shouldn’t be,” he says plaintively.

Cedric smiles absently, staring up at the canopy of leaves. “Mm, no. It shouldn’t be. But it is. There is naught to be done about that. Naught to be done… no longer a place to belong…”

“What?”

“Never you mind, my dear,” Cedric dismisses.

Ciaran looks at him, something like trepidation in his eyes. “No, what do you mean? No longer a place to belong? Surely you don’t mean to say you don’t belong with us? We need you, Cedric! We need your experience, your calm, we need your  _ presence _ . And- and Iorveth needs you, too.”

Cedric just smiles sadly. To think, now that he is enveloped in fog, he sees clearer than he has for so long?

Que’n esse.

~  


In the end, it is simple. Simple doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt, but it must be done. Cedric knows that, now.

“I’m leaving,” he tells Iorveth, late at night, all he needs to bring already packed. “I’m sorry.”

“What?” Iorveth says, splutters. He turns from gazing out into the forest to instead look at Cedric, eye wide and disbelieving. “ _ Leaving?” _

Cedric nods resolutely. Half of his resolution comes from still being vaguely drunk, but it doesn’t matter one way or another. It seems effective to his mildly addled mind to prevent a hangover by just… drinking more. And it’s working for now, even if the vodka still tastes terrible.

“I cannot stay here any longer. I love you, but I cannot.”

Iorveth stares at him. “You- is this about the child? I have spoken to Cathán, it won’t happen again! You can’t just  _ leave _ !” he protests. “Do you care that little for our cause?”

“It is not  _ about  _ your cause,” Cedric replies, and the word choice is deliberate. It is no longer his cause; he will not fight for it. “It is about my health, and your morale. Look at me now; functioning almost as normal, only because I have downed a bottle and a half of vodka, Iorveth. Once it is gone I shall again be besieged by my own mind, to the point I wish to tear my very eyes out of my head! What good am I to the Scoia’tael? I see all the blood, all the death, and I cannot  _ stand  _ it anymore. Nor will I remain to poison your people with my opinions, either.”

“You cannot make decisions like this when you’re  _ drunk _ !” Iorveth snaps. “Ciaran told me you were, but I thought you were trying to cope with it the once, not trying to become a layabout drunkard!”

Cedric tightens his lips. “And how, pray tell, am I meant to  _ cope _ ?” he demands. “You’ve seen me, these last weeks. It started worsening months ago, has only accelerated since.”

Iorveth scowls. “We can find a solution! What solution is it, for you to leave the Scoia’tael to wander off like a drunk vagabond? Did you not say you would do your part? Did you change your mind so quickly now?” he demands.

“I have had doubts I belong in the Scoia’tael for a long time,” Cedric says shortly. “I will no longer kill dh’oine.”

Iorveth laughs mockingly. Mean. He’s hurting, bewildered, Cedric can tell. “Oh, will you not? What then, when they come for you with swords, when they come for you with knives to rend you apart? Do you think being  _ peaceful  _ will save you then?” he snarls. “Do you, Cedric? Because I think it’ll get you  _ killed! _ ”

“Then that is my problem,” Cedric responds firmly.

Iorveth makes a frustrated noise, drawing a hand over his face. There’s a tremble to his shoulders, a barely perceptible shine to his eye, and Cedric softens.

“I truly am sorry, Iorveth,” he murmurs. “I love you so very much, but I cannot be what you need, now.”

“And have you told Ciaran of your lovely little plans, then?” Iorveth mutters. “He thinks the damned  _ world  _ of you, you utter fool.”

Cedric bites his lip, lowering his gaze. “I have not,” he admits. “I am not brave enough to face the betrayal I will see in his eyes.”

Iorveth gives a bark of a mirthless laugh. “But me you will gladly betray?”

“It is not a betrayal,” Cedric says softly. “If you need me, I will always be there for you. But I cannot fight for you, any longer. And Ciaran thinks the world of you, too. More so, even. It is my hope that he will learn to see you truly, that you will let him. That you two can openly share the love I know you have for one another.”

A tear slides over Iorveth’s cheek, even as his jaw sets. “You think we could replace you with one another?” he bites. “That we  _ would _ ?”

Cedric shakes his head. “Not replace. Find something new.”

Iorveth shakes his head, and tears are running freely from his eye now. “…Of all times for you to be decisive. Of all times.  _ Why _ , Cedric?”

“Because I must,” Cedric answers. “Because it is how it must be.”

Iorveth works his jaw, swiping at the tears. “If you leave now, Cedric… if you leave now, I do not want to see you again,” he says. His voice is strong, and yet, Cedric can still hear the tremulous timbre hidden within it. He swallows thickly. This is the choice he has, that he must make. Save himself, and lose his love.

And yet, the choice has already been made.

“Squass’me, en’ca minne,” he murmurs. “Va faill.”

He leaves, then. His heart hurts, his hands tremble, but he does not turn back. The choice has been made, and now he must make his own way, as Iorveth must his. As Ciaran must.

He pauses only for one moment, and that is to hear Iorveth’s bitterly murmured farewell, to breathe. And then he moves onwards. To what, he does not yet know.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Evellienn, daetre! - Everyone, back!  
> Squass'me - Forgive me  
> Ceádmil - Greetings  
> Dh'oinewedd - human children  
> Que glosse? Cáemm aen me, Cedric. Ysgarthiad! - What are you looking at? Go to me, Cedric. Shit!  
> Va faill, dh’oinewedd. Dearme aen elaine tedd - Farewell, human child. Dream of beautiful times.  
> Cáelm - Calm  
> Dearme, minne - Dream/Sleep, love  
> Que'n esse - Thus it will be/That is how it will be  
> Squass'me, en'ca minne. Va faill - Forgive me, little love. Farewell.
> 
> Translation of title: There flowed with blood and daring.
> 
> I do enjoy making my poor Cedric suffer, don't I? And everyone he loves with him. Oof, all the emotion!


End file.
